Spawn (26 page)

Paul Harvey

Harold Pierce

He considered them both for a moment then crossed out the bottom one, tapping on the pad with the end of the pencil.

Both men had disappeared, apparently without trace. Was there some bizarre link which he hadn’t yet thought of? Randall scribbled across the rough sketch, tore the leaf from the pad and tossed it into the waste-bin. He pushed the thought from his mind. There was no link between the two men, he was searching for answers where there were none. Clutching at straws had become something of a hobby for him just lately.

The phone rang.

“Randall speaking.”

“Inspector, it’s me,” the voice was immediately recognizable. “Maggie Ford.”

Randall smiled to himself.

“What can I do for you, Miss. . .” He corrected himself. “Maggie?” He heard her laugh at the other end.

“It’s about what I said earlier, about Harold Pierce. I didn’t think at the time but I remember now, when he was dismissed, apparently he said that he
did
have somewhere to go.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where that was?” Randall enquired.

She didn’t. .

“Well, not to worry. I’ve got some news for you too. After I left the hospital this morning, I went out to the new psychiatric place and did some checking up on your friend Harold. I think you can stop worrying. I spoke to the Chief Consultant psychiatrist there and he assured me that Pierce had never shown any signs of violence. If I had a list of suspects I’d cross him off it right now.” He laughed, humourlessly.

“So you’re convinced it’s Harvey?” she said.

“No doubt about it.”

There was silence at the other end for a moment. Randall frowned.

“Maggie.”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m still here.” The pause was a nervous one, both anxious to prolong the conversation but not sure how to progress. Randall felt like a schoolkid and noticed, with amusement, that his hand was trembling slightly.

“What time do you finish work tonight?” he asked.

“I’m off at ten,” she said, almost apologetically.

“I know a nice little restaurant that stays open until late. I can pick you up outside the hospital.”

Maggie laughed.

“If you’re asking me to dinner the answer is no.”

Randall felt suddenly deflated, almost shocked at her refusal but his mood rapidly lightened as she continued speaking.

“I know the restaurant you’re talking about,” she said. “It’s too expensive. Besides, I’m a better cook anyway and, my flat’s nearer. You wouldn’t have so far to drive.”

It was Randall’s turn to laugh.

She gave him her address.

“Be there at about quarter to eleven.”

They exchanged farewells and Randall put the phone down, feeling happier than he’d felt for a long time.

There was a knock on the office door and Randall shouted for the visitor to enter. It was Sergeant Willis.

“Thought you might have brought me a cuppa, Norman,” said the Inspector.

“Sorry, guv,” said Willis. “Just the pathologist’s full report and this.” He handed another piece of paper to his superior. It bore the numbers of all the Panda cars belonging to the Exham force. Each number had the driver’s name next to it.

“They’ve all just checked in,” said Willis. “The East side of the town is clear. There’s still no sign of Harvey.”

The smile faded rapidly from Randall’s face and the familiar feeling of angry frustration swiftly drove away the fleeting twinge of elation he’d experienced moments before.

“I suppose we just keep looking then?” said Willis.

Randall nodded.

“Yes,” he muttered, his voice low. “We just keep looking.”

Outside, it was beginning to get dark.

“
Well, I don’t think the bus is coming,” said Debbie Snell pushing another stick of Juicy Fruit into her mouth.

“If we hadn’t been mucking about in maths we wouldn’t have got detention and we wouldn’t have missed the bloody bus would we?” Colette Hill told her irritably.

“Well we
were
mucking about and we
did
get detention,” Debbie said, leaning against the bus stop.

“Why don’t you ring your precious Tony up,” Belinda Vernon told her. “If you hadn’t been going on about him we wouldn’t have got told off in the beginning.”

“Oh piss off,” Debbie said, defiantly. “Anyway, if the bus isn’t here soon I might just do that.”

All three girls were from Exham Comprehensive School, the largest of the town’s three schools and they wore its distinctive maroon blazer. Which, in Debbie’s case refused to do up because of her mountainous breasts. All three girls were fifteen but Debbie was a taller, more mature-looking youngster than her two companions. They stood forlornly at the stop glancing agitatedly at their watches or periodically glancing up the road in the hope that a bus would appear from around the corner. The bus stop itself, complete with its glass shelter, backed onto a thick outcrop of trees which, in turn, masked some of the rolling fields that formed Exham’s boundaries.

It was from these trees that Paul Harvey watched the three girls.

As a teenager he had always found girls impossible to cope with. Their jokes, their jibes, their little tricks. He had not known how to react and, on one occasion, when one of them had made exaggerated advances towards him, he had been left humiliated – standing alone amidst the jeers and laughter trying to hide an uncontrollable erection. The memory, as did so many of the others, still hurt.

Now he watched the girls from the shelter of the trees, close enough to hear what they were saying. The sickle was gripped tightly in his hand.

Debbie took one more look at her watch.

“Well, I’m not waiting around any longer,” she proclaimed. “I’m going to phone Tony.”

She rummaged through her pocket for a coin and, with a haughty “Goodbye” set off down the hill towards the phone box. The other girls watched her go until finally she turned a corner and disappeared from view.

Harvey moved swiftly but stealthily through the trees, tracing a parallel path with the lone girl. The dusk was deepening into darkness now, further adding to his concealment and he was content to remain within the confines of the woods, his eyes constantly on Debbie.

She reached the phone box and pulled open the door.

Harvey watched as she dialled. He could see her speaking into the mouthpiece and, a few minutes later, she put the receiver down and stepped back outside.

He watched her for a full five minutes as she paced back and forth then, slowly, he rose to his full height and moved through the trees towards her.

Debbie had her back to him and the growing wind masked the sound of breaking twigs and the big man emerged from the woods.

He was within ten yards of her now, almost clear of the trees.

She looked at her watch, oblivious to his approach.

The black Capri came speeding round the corner, headlamps blazing. Debbie ran across the road to meet it, jumping in happily. The driver a young man in his early twenties, spun the wheel and the vehicle turned full circle, heading back to Exham.

Harvey melted back into the woods, merging with the darkness as if he were a shadow.

Harold sat up, the nightmare fading rapidly as consciousness swept over him. He blinked in the darkness, rubbed his eyes and, as he did so, he felt the perspiration on his face.

It was almost pitch black in the deserted asylum. He had a hurricane lamp in the room but he dare not light it. He sat shivering in the darkness, listening to the high mournful wailing of the wind as it whistled through the countless broken windows on the lower floor, stirring the dust which coated the floors so thickly.

The foetuses were in one corner of the room, covered by a blanket to protect them from the cold. Harold squinted through the gloom, his ears picking up the sounds of their low guttural raspings. He could see the blanket rising and falling intermittently. For what seemed like an eternity he sat cross-legged on the dirty floor then, slowly, he reached for the hurricane lamp and the box of matches nearby. He struck a match, lifted the housing on the lamp and watched as the wick began to glow yellow then he dropped the housing back into place, the dull light gradually filling the room, spreading out like an ink blot around him, driving back the darkness. Holding the lamp in one hand, Harold crawled towards the dormant foetuses.

His hand hovered over the blanket for what seemed like an eternity, then he slowly pulled it back.

The creatures appeared to be sleeping, their eyes closed, sealed only by the thin membrane of skin through which the gleaming blackness of those magnetic orbs still showed. Harold ran an appraising eye over them, swallowing hard.

One of them moved and its arm flopped limply against his knee. Harold let out a low moan and held the hurricane lamp closer to the outstretched limb. The breath caught in his throat and his one good eye bulged in its socket.

As if pulled by invisible wires, the stubby fingers of the nearest foetus slowly elongated, lengthened into spidery tendrils. The flesh looked soft but leathery. Harold pulled the cover back a little more and watched in fascination as the same thing happened with the creature’s other hand.

He backed off, heart pounding hard against his ribs.

They were developing at a faster rate than even
he
had first imagined.

Harold sat gazing at them, his mind in a turmoil. Torn between fear and fascination. There was no revulsion any longer, just foreboding.

He wondered how long it would be before the foetuses completed their growth.

Randall parked his car and walked across to the small group of flats on the other side of the street. Beneath the sodium glare of the street-lamp he checked his watch.

10.43 p.m.

“Spot on,” he said to himself, pushing open the double doors which led into the hallway. There was a staircase ahead of him and a lift to his right. He chose the stairs, walking up slowly, feeling somewhat self-conscious carrying the spray of red carnations. Two kids, about fifteen, bundled their way past him laughing raucously and, minutes later, Randall heard the roar of motor-bike engines as the two of them sped off. They’ll probably be wrapped round a tree by midnight, he thought. He’d always wanted a motor-bike when he was a kid but his parents had resolutely forbidden it. Death traps, his father had called them. Over the years, with the number of accidents he’d seen, Randall had come to agree.

He reached the landing and found that it was bright and clean-looking with paintings hung on two of the walls. There was an enormous rubber plant outside one of the flat doors which looked like something out of “The Day of the Triffids”. The building consisted of just three storeys, six flats on each floor and it bore a marked contrast to the flats on the larger estates on the other side of Exham. No graffiti here, he thought. No dog shit in the hallway or cat’s piss on the landings. Sweetness and light he mused, somewhat sardonically. The small block was quiet, everyone either went to bed early or Maggie was the only one on this floor he thought as he found her number. He pressed the bell and a two tone chime answered him. He held the carnations beside him, finally producing them when Maggie herself opened the door.

She smiled broadly, her face lighting up and, once more, Randall was struck by her extraordinarily sparkling eyes. It was like looking at a June sky – two pieces of heaven captured within those glittering orbs. She was dressed in a crisply laundered grey dress and a pair of high-heeled gold shoes which seemed to accentuate the smooth curve of her calves. Maggie was a small woman, about five-three Randall guessed, but the graceful suppleness of her legs made her appear taller. He ran a quick, appreciative eye over her, thinking how different she looked from when he’d first seen her that morning.

She ushered him in, taking the flowers gratefully.

“I didn’t know what sort of chocolates you liked,” he said, somewhat self-consciously. “So I thought I’d play safe.”

“They’re beautiful,” she said and went off to find a vase. “Sit down.”

He sank into the welcoming luxuriance of the sofa and looked around him. The room was quite large but sparsely furnished with just the three piece suite, a sideboard and a coffee table. A gas fire blazed before him, one of those with mock flames. There was a portable TV perched on a high table in the far corner of the room, a small music centre to his left. Two doors led out of the room, the one which Maggie had disappeared through led into the kitchen, the other one, closed at the moment, led to the bedroom and bathroom.

Behind the sofa on which he sat there was a small dining table set for two and the policeman could smell food cooking. The lights were dimmed and the whole room had a cosy feel to it. Immediately Randall felt relaxed.

Maggie returned a moment later carrying the flowers in a white vase. She set it down on the coffee table. He smelt her perfume as she leant over, a subtle aroma which lingered after her.

She poured him a drink and they talked gaily for a while until Maggie got up, announcing that the supper was ready. Randall got to his feet and wandered across to the table, watching her as she carried the meal in.

Randall savoured the meal. It was indeed a treat to eat something prepared by a woman’s hands, especially when she was as attractive as Maggie. He looked up at her and for long seconds he imagined he was sitting opposite his dead wife but the vision hastily vanished.

“I’m not used to cooking for two,” she said.

He reached for the wine bottle and poured them both a glass.

“That surprises me,” he said.

“Why?”

“You’re an attractive woman. It’s not usual to find women like you on their own.”

“Men don’t seem interested in women who can compete with them on the same level,” she said. “I mean, as far as a career goes. It seems to frighten them off. A woman anywhere else but the kitchen sink is a threat to their egos.”